I startled awake, early Sunday morning,
fraught - my mind, darting like a panicked animal
because my assignment calendar
is wet, smeared and illegible!

Total darkness - I fish for my phone by it’s cord - it reads 3:08am.

I flop back onto a cloud of thick, memory foam.
Ahhh, jeeez, it was just a DREAM.

Of course, my assignment calendar
is safe, digital, redundant, cloud backed up.

“THAT was a little morbid.” I think,
as I drift back out of consciousness.

I want to be a writer -
and like a new poker player -
I'm starting to evaluate my cards.

I post on several poetry sites
I find syncing them kind of hard.

'Cause I'm the model of imperfection
heck, I'm the Edison of mistakes -
a teenager half-heartedly committed
to doing whatever it takes.

Does it help that I'm never happy?
That I constantly make updates?

At times I feel the proverbial cat
chasing its own tail -
but I think I'm making progress
- like a literary snail.

What I'd want
I want you all to be well.
I'd like you all to have love.
I want you all to have plenty.
I want you all to enjoy friends.
I hope you can all savor family.
I want you all to experience longevity.
In a world where we can all go out again.
That’s all I want - is it too much to ask?

I’ve been working on my website - it’s been neglected far too long.
I’ve been wearing out Spotify - I may have listened to every song.
I walk five miles a day - because you’ve got to get outside
and I can easily spend an hour a day on “Just Dance” exercise.
I’ve been taking free on-line courses at “open university”
They have a thousand choices - an almost endless diversity.
Have you ever heard of “Headspace” - it can help you to relax
If you haven’t tried meditation for stress - I think it’s unsurpassed.
I’m learning about meal planning and cooking things with ease
I’ve been Zooming with a friend in China, to freshen up my Cantonese.
Even with a thousand distractions - this lockdown is driving me crazy
But it isn’t because I have nothing to do, and it isn’t because I’m lazy.
People just need people - so that we can laugh, love and compete,
or simply be together - that’s how humans feel complete.

You know, I used to be happy all of the time.
What the heck happened? I used to go weeks
without crying, I used to love going to school.

In fairness, I liked real school - not the sad,
sterile, anti-social, virtual experience.

When I'm mad I get silly, then mean. I don't
always know why - angry is the answer, but
I don’t always get the subconscious analysis
behind it. That's a bad day - I'm truly sorry.

If I could step back, in those moments,
and think - clearly - I'm about the luckiest person.

I'm a hundred pounds of privilege
- if we rounding up - but pressurized,
stressed like a movie submarine in deep dive.

I think I miss people - like in an assembly
- before it starts - where a hundred conversations
clash like the random patter of rain. That’s one
of the sounds of joy.

The civilized brain is soaked in the opinions,
and shared experiences with others. These virtual,
interactive shadows on flat screens can't fill the void.

When did “people deserve to live” become a controversial thought?

When did wearing a mask to protect your health become so overwrought?

When did the idea of protecting your kids become an afterthought?

When did counting the dead become a Presidential political plot?

We’re so far down the Trump-rabbit-hole that common sense is skewed.

We really have to get rid of that FU#KH3@D - if you’ll excuse me being rude.

(Written for a contest “Write a poem based on a poem.’
Inspired by: “My Cat Is High, and So Am I” by Thomas W. Case)

Honey, I was ******, so ******.
I hardly knew what was going on.
That’s when I saw it was gone.

The moon, I mean - hold on -
Takes a swig of ****, but sugary lemonade
I watch the moon - when it’s there - you know?

I’ve always loved the moon - its reflective glamor,
the way it seems to bend light around it,
like a beautiful woman walking into a bar.

The moons like my cat, she has beauty, without vanity
- and without much gravity - like, you know - the moon.

But as I was saying, it was gone - suddenly?
It felt sudden - and visceral - like I’d misplaced something.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, it wasn't behind clouds.

So anyway, man, I looked around and there it was, as if by magic,
it couldn’t have been any clearer and it's never looked nearer,
than it was, right there, in my rear-view mirror.

I had to laugh. You see, I was ****** - so ******.
****** - but I’m never alone, when I can commune with the distant,
inconstant, love of my life, the ever-argent moon.

Which came first - kissing or fire?
Which came first - dance, or the language of love?

In a breeze of timid whispers
and with wary downcast eyes
the secret world was opened
to where true depth of feeling lies.

With each step, stories were told
and a tapestry of intimacy unfolded.
to dare or not to dare
to care or not to care.
In the dog-days of romance,
those are the calls
that lovebirds must answer.

Hello again
nagging dissatisfaction
diminish me again
corrupt everything
with your whispers of truth.

White is for rice and brides - ready to commit.
White’s for ghosts and clouds or even carnations
but it should never, ever, be used for privilege
or worse yet, as poetic inspiration.

I’ve been waiting for the urge to write
while facing an ugly screen of white.
Waiting for the vowels to fall into place,
for words to congeal and finally displace
the awful, foreboding, blank white space.

Learning is our struggle, our crown of thorns.
The more we study and prepare for fall,
the more excited I get to reenter those halls.
34 days until classes start. For fall weather,
and the bee hum of crowded life in the dorms.

My roommates and I are like a single, nameless thing
- an emolument that happens to have 6 heads.
We’ve beaten the freshman “imposter syndrome,”
and we’re ready to bring sophomore year home -
together - no muss, no fuss - I love that for us.

We shelter secrets, holding them close
and encrypted. Hidden truths,
like submerged rocks that create
snapping undercurrents and choppy,
white-capped rapids for navigating affinities.

(Senryu-ous story)

I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.

I brush my teeth and
floss regularly, I wash
my roommates dishes,

I am generous,
I don’t run in the hallways,
I do my homework.

I support pizza
places, Amazon - I spur
the economy

semi-sleepless night
no worries, but tossing with
no sleep - what’s with that?

My health app says I
slept three hours, four minutes.
I’m low on toothpaste.

five-thirty AM
Lisa and I ran four miles
on the gym treadmills

Banana/ peanut
butter/ cacao/ oat milk/ chia
seed breakfast smoothie.

I've been in love with
styling dresses, layered
over flared jean pants.

My first look was a
tulle dress over sequined jeans
and tan kitten heels.

The winter hook-up
scene is in full swing - not for
me, I’m like second base

I just lay around,
in sad, unfettered, boredom
- a crying shoulder

for others, I’m not
a skanky *****, like [censored]
- try penicillin - ßℹℸçⒽ

Since, as you can see,
I am, for all intents and
purposes - perfect.

I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.

A wall of Jacobean era lattice-windows
line my dorm room - my private eyes.

How many freshmen have watched
the gilt harvest moon from this seat?

I keep them open, for cool breezes,
and the comforting the sounds of life,
in overworked, needy moments.

Yes, you have a hot boyfriend,
but I have a deluxe pizza
and I think we all know
who’s winning.

The queen of winter comes.
An expressionless assassin
who feels no passion, she comes
as silently as the shadow of a cloud.

She may come crowned by aurora borealis,
or in ziggurat-like steps of paralysis,
but the song she sings freezes earthly things
and her chilly breath brings a sleepy death.
The queen of winter comes.

A deadly kiss from those frozen lips
can shatter skin like glass.
May howling hounds warn you
and blazing fires warm you.
The queen of winter comes.

A tempest night sky presses, my lattice windows shake,
as if someone’s being thrown against them, or worse yet,
a yeti's breaking in.  They lock with little levers that seem far
too flimsy to keep out the prying fingers of turbulence.

We watched a man plodding outside - obviously a student from Alaska. He was talking on his phone, his breath a continuous, cold white cloud. He slipped, careering drunkenly but managed to stay upright by assuming a surfer-like crouch.
“Where do you think HE’s going?” Lisa wondered.

Forget fall’s polite, amuse-bouche of chill, we’ve been smacked,
full frontally assaulted by the gigantic, cold-fist of winter. “Go on,”
I said, to the weather gods last fall, like an unlucky gambler on a
losing streak. “hit me!”

Now I’m searching Amazon for “flannel underwear”.

hello world without surprise.
good morning gentle tedium.
****** me, please, monotony.
kiss me, sweet emptiness.
hold me rough, nothingness.
dishonor me, meaninglessness.
ravish me, joylessness.
whew... can a girl get a cigarette?



no, I don't really smoke - yuck - that was a joke  =]

Be careful with words you intone,
because words have lives of their own.
Words overblown, relayed on the phone,
words in harsh tones that jolt, stun and depose,
shocking with what they disclose.

(Maddy’s Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964)

I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.

Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.

Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.

Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
.
.
A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles

Why is pleasure measured in moments,
while work is measured in weeks or years?

Pleasures are like insubstantial fictions, sweet treats gone
in the tasting or perhaps flowers, that once cut, wither.
So don't be enthralled by fickle snippets of passion.

Work and service have the weight of reward,
by labor's honest toil, we fashion, forge and provide.

It was one of those gray but somehow bright-skied New England Wednesday mornings that made you sad for anyone who wasn’t there. Fall freshness demanded my attention, like a hungry pet, from every open lattice-window in our stuffy common room.

As I watched, for a marvelous moment, the world was a cartoon whirly-gig. Trees, writhed, animal-like, to be free of their multicolor leaves, shedding them - like bad blind-dates. The four-color debris was immediately drafted away on gust-streams, those invisible elves, and politely scattered in corners.

I’m waiting for test results today and time seems to be passing with vegetable slowness. In uncertain hours like these, some students armor themselves with alcohol while others indulge in religious solace. Not Leong and I. Leong’s a communist - it seems that communists grumpily tough things out.

I was raised a Catholic, so I rightly deserve whatever bad thing’s going to happen. In Catholicism, failure and guilt are accepted everywhere, like the best credit cards. Any success is automatically categorized as unexpected, undeserved, if not fraudulent, and above all, temporary. In fact, life itself is little more than an inconvenient test on the way to wherever.

“We’re living in the age of crisis.” I announced, agitatedly, to the otherwise quiet common room (where the usual crowd was attempting to study).
“Figured that out all by yourself”? Sunny asked, “You ought to go to Yale,” she added.
“Hear me out,” I say, as if anyone cares enough to stop me. “Our parents had their war on terror” I say, with air-quotes, “but we got a pandemic, a crazy President complete with insurrection, a faltering supply chain, a cost-of-living crisis, renewed nuclear war threats and the climate meltdown. It’s hard to study with all that going on.” I self-declared.

“It’s hard to study because I’m out of watermelon.” Sophie said, digging through the fridge.
“You aren’t anyone these days unless you’re battling a crisis.” Sophie noted.
“Your parents are ALIVE,” Leong said dryly, “I MET them and they’re going through all that too.”
“And are we (mankind) going to take any real, adult steps to address these issues?" I asked, looking around to see if my outrage was mirrored, “apparently not.” I sermonized rhetorically.

“YOU” Lisa said, shaking her head, “are a hopeless optimist - you left out a few crises.”
“WhatEVER,” I declared, “It’s still hard to study,” I reiterated, while distractedly chewing on a #2 pencil that Lisa had loaned me.

Later, we’re outside, taking in the semi-sun and reclining on our fold-up “better beach” lounge chairs. We’re off-and-on playing “That’s why I am like I am.”
“When I was in 10th grade, I had 22 detentions.” Sunny revealed.
“22! What for?” Anna asked, looking over at Sunny while shading her eyes from the sun that briefly pierced the clouds and decided to stab her fiercely in the face.
“Talking in class.” Sunny admitted. “Wow, THAT’S a shocker.” Lisa laughed.
“Shut up!” Sunny laughed, adding a ******* for emphasis. “I got those detentions on purpose. I had the love-jones for my English teacher, and she supervised lunch detentions.
I would bring in these lesbian paperbacks, like “Keeping YOU a secret,” to hold up and pretend read - while eying her, seductively."
Anna gasped, “Did she ever respond?”
“No,” Sunny said with a sigh, “My love was unrequited.”
“That was a lot of trouble to go through.” Lisa commented.
“Being gay isn’t that deep,” Sunny observed, adding the tag, “That’s why I am like I am.”

(This is not scary, short fiction and probably not fit for click-farming.)

Sometimes I’m serious, a girl can be serious. I have to write a lot of analysis papers in school (yeah, some people still waste their time and money like that). I’m leveraging that effort here. This is part* of an academic paper I’m writing on the world economy in crisis (this part covers world inflation and China/Taiwan). It’s a draft in progress and, in the spirit of brevity (my target ~1000 words) and avoiding the verbose, I’ve simplified the narratives and removed graphs, diagrams and footnotes. Here we go:

Have you noticed that the world seems less stable and that your spending power has eroded since 2009 and especially since covid? You aren’t wrong.

The Fed balance sheet had never been over a trillion dollars before 2009. However, from 2009 (the banking collapse) to 2022 (COVID) the Fed moved our balance sheet from sub-1 trillion to 9 trillion - pushing about 50% dollar inflation on the world. We ourselves experienced 8% inflation.

Everything in the world is priced in dollars. If you look at cross-world currency settlements, you might think, ‘well,  there's the dollar and the euro, the pound, the dirham and all these other currencies’ but there’s really not. There's only the dollar and the other currencies back-solve for how they pay for things in their own countries. That's the way the world works. So when we push 50% inflation (in dollar terms) to the world it affects everyone. Marginal currencies on the bottom of the financial structure collapsed. That would be Turkey, Iran (Iran controls Iraq now), Pakistan, Lebanon, and many many other currencies throughout the third world that hyper-inflated (became worthless).  

So when people say, “can we all just all calm down and go back to business as usual?” There is no easy way to go back to 2% world growth and stability. Inflation is an insidious, destabilizing force. Even China’s economy is in deep, deep trouble - they’re in the midst of a real estate crisis, a banking crisis, a youth unemployment crisis, a trade surplus decline (because of their threat to invade Taiwan), a debt to GDP crisis (much worse than ours) and now, Trump is threatening tariffs that could bring their net income to zero.

China has said many many times - too many times to doubt it - that they will attack and absorb Taiwan by 2027 - period.
Why would they do that? Aren’t our economies too linked? Knowing we will have to retaliate? We don't know what President XI Jinping’s calculus is. The CCP doesn't see the world the same way we do and, like Putin, we may not be dealing with someone rational. It’s like when Putin moved his blood banks, tankers, air force and army to the edge of Ukraine - some said it was just ‘saber rattling.’ No, when the blood banks and tankers are moved - you’re a ‘GO’ - it’s just a matter of time.

Neville Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister now vilified for appeasing ******, wasn’t an idiot. He could not get his head around why ****** would plunge the world into war. They had lived through WWI and where was the profit in it - what reasonable reason was there for a world war in 1938? Let’s not make that mistake. Let’s take a moment and think it through.

Why is China obsessed with unifying with Taiwan? (1) History,  the Chinese, who lost the revolution that brought the CCP to power fled to Taiwan (2) The democratic government in Taiwan is four times as successful as communist counterpart. Their GDP is higher, their worker productivity is four times higher, they enjoy a higher standard of living, (3) they are a success story that demonstrates what China could be if it weren't hamstrung with the communist party. (4) they want to deny us the tech, (5) Their culture and world view is different. In China there are no human rights and no truly private property. There is only what’s good for (Chinese Communist Party) CCP power - the CCP is everything.

Why protect Taiwan? Taiwan Semi is the chip manufacturer for the world. They are the only maker of 2mn chips - the most vital, powerful component for the AI and quantum computing races. The country that wins those races will control information for the next century. The loss of that capacity is an absolute, existential threat to the security of the United States. The fact that the US failed to keep current in this area is a major *****-up decades in the making.

Messages of deterrence are flying. One reason we bombed Iran - where we had to drop munitions, with precision down three tiny shafts, covered by a mountain, from whatever heights - and we did it - was a message of deterrence partially aimed at China. Proof that America still has the best and most lethal military in the world - and we aren't afraid to use it. The US admiral who commands our indo-pacific forces recently said - publicly - that “if China thinks they're going to either blockade or engage in some kinetic conflict with Taiwan, we will turn the Taiwan strait into a hellscape.” Even a limited naval engagement with China, in the Taiwan strait, could cost thousands of American casualties (think Korean War people).

What kind of leverage does China have VS the us? Recently:
China has stopped supplying the US with rare earth magnets - those are critical to making EV vehicles run.
China is denying America processed synthetic graphite - a critical component in every single EV battery.
China is withholding the lasers used in fiber-optic communications from the US (they are the single world manufacturer).
Those are single points of failure for US technologies and we must ‘Manhattan Project’ our capacity for their replacement.

Why did the Trump administration remove subsidies for EV vehicles? First, it plays to his base but secondly, removing the subsidies slows demand until we can fill those gaps ourselves. Part of the ‘Big Beautiful Bill’ earmarks billions to start addressing the failure points mentioned above.

What non-military leverage do we have VS the Chinese?
We hold the upper hand. China imports 13 million barrels of oil every day,  9 Bs of natural gas every day, 40% of their food every single day.and they need access to the American dollar system to acquire those goods. They are a closed capital account - no one will accept Yuan as payment. That is a single point of failure for them.

Conclusions: We should let the CCP know - make it very clear - that if they attack Taiwan, the first thing we’ll do is take them out of the dollar system. Pushing that button would be easy - but it will hurt us too in the short run. It may be a better deterrent than those US carrier strike forces - which are still an option if it comes to that.
.
.
Songs for this:
Canary In a Coalmine by The Police
Invisible Sun by The Police

my life is full of learning, but I want more than learning.
I want more than silly things, but I want silly things.
I want more than this - viral incompleteness - with its worsening unease.
I want more than forever being enslaved to safe hospitality like astronauts in space.
We control heat with air conditioning - gravity with jets and communicate via satellites.
There’s nothing I can really do but trust in science, and patiently hope.
My wants may shine valuable, like silver, but they are, in reality, worthless tin.

It’s no use wishing on the moon -
beware that nearly untouchable beauty.
She has a dark side and will desert you
when when the fickle twirling earth spins
night into morning.

It’s no good wishing on the stars:
those illusions are a million years gone.
Stars die like us. They own no magic
and will fade as the morning blossoms
upon the night.

Ancients wished on the treasonous sun,
that fabricator of warmth - not compassion.
Although it brings the new day, it can do little else

It’s December, it’s foggy and rainy, but that fits. Of course, a rainy Saturday means gathering in the common room with my roommates and watching either “The Hunger Games” or “Twilight.” Leong’s never seen Twilight, believe it or not, what are they DOing in China? We were explaining that It’s ok to talk through Twilight because it’s completely senseless. Yeah, good times.

We got back from Thanksgiving break, and we had to hit it - grinding to squeeze half a semester into 18 days. It’s a cornucopia of pressure. Yes, we’ve hit the books, but we’re still us.

Here’s a question: What’s the first season in December? “Spotify wrapped” season! EVERYONE has Spotify and once a year you get a summary of your listening habits. The reports came out this week and it’s all people are talking about. Comparing their lists, artists, tastes. Those lists say a lot about someone and it’s ok to not have taste, we should normalize it.

My top artist was Taylor Swift (duh) my top song was Taylor Swift’s “Renegade,” Spotify says I listened to it 285 times but that’s biased because more than once, when writing a paper, I put that song on a loop for 6 hours. My second most listened to song was “Champagne Problems” By Taylor. That song is so Rory, Gilmore Girls coded - like Rory saying, “you're on your own.” My other top artists are TV Girl, the backseat lovers and hypo campus. Yeah, I roll big.

Taylor’s also been in the conversation because Sophie has an ex-fem-friend (a freshman) who started seeing a 45-year-old guy. Let me ask you, what does a 45-year-old man have in common with an 18-year-old girl? We have Yale friends in their early 20s who consider themselves still teenagers and children and THEY are horrified. It’s naked fracking *******. (Sorry, that one foamed over.)

The whole situation is ripped from Taylor’s 2010 masterpiece “Dear John,” which is about her dating John Mayer when she was 19 and he was 30-something. Her friends warned her, but she wouldn’t hear. Taylor Swift can be corny, and I love the corn, but she can be topical too and even though I was 7 when she released “Dear John” (2010), it’s a timeless lesson.

Lisa and I wrap and rap for Christmas.
Can you imagine the two of us doing that?

We’ve got Christmas playlists going
Christmas scented candles glowing,
a tinctured but milky hot-chocolate flowing.

“Stir the marshmallows with the candy canes,”
Lisa says, like that’s something she had to explain.

We’re humming, singing and laughing,
and dancing because we’re happy.

We’re dashing to finish our wrapping,
we can’t have our suitemates catching
us executing the plans we’re hatching
to surprise them with gifts, enchanting.

The paper’s exotic, delicate and glittery
bought at Boyars Gifts, in New York City.
Why do the scissors keep getting lost?
Getting low on scotch-tape - we’ve used a lot.

We’ll be putting them, sneakily, under the tree
where they’ll add glamor and tease to our festivities.

I love the lights of the season - I love giving gifts.
For me, playing Santa is as good as it gets.
.
.
(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: tinctured: mixed with alcohol)

There’s a writers’ strike. Should you be writing today?

Have you ever been wrong?
I was wrong.
Ugly, smugly wrong.
Psephologically wrong.
Hit the iceberg,
smoking’s good for you,
the treaty of Versailles,
left on red,
Copernicus, Aristotle, Custer,
wrong.
I’m not claiming an excuse,
wrong.
It wasn’t you,
it was me,
wrong.
Just fricking
kiss a frog
wrong.
Wrong all along,
wrong about the world,
reevaluate me wrong,
wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can admit I was wrong.
Can you forgive me,
can I forgive me,
wrong
.
.
Songs for this:
Waters of March by John Roseboro & Mei Semones
Stabilise by Nilüfer Yanya

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dish-towel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their after-lives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their death is cruel or sudden but I'm an adolescent - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break-up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.

You’re so HOT when you lie to me
young republican
I love your insurRECTION
I prefer my men dumb and dishonest
so come Lie with me
give me your BIG one
about how Trump won and
how the big steal couldn’t be stopped
ooo, slower, yes,
Tell me what a strong-man Putin is
with truth in abeyance
Yeah, uh huh, like that
Oooo.. uh..
restrict me, control me.
take my choice, my privacy
Ummm.. yeah..
right there..
impede my vote.. yes, yesss
Keep, keep, umm..
nothing’s wrong
don’t stop, oh,
don’t stop now..

There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
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(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.

This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.

Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.

Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.

Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.

When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence

Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
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Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
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A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3

It was Monday, June 20th, 2022. My roommates and I are in Paris to see Olivia Rodrigo (in two days). But tonight, I was doing a favor for my great uncle Remy. Taking my elderly great-aunt Yvonne to the airport.

In RL this all happened in French but I wouldn’t do that to you - but just so you know.

“I’ve always thought of Anais as a granddaughter,” Yvonne said too loudly into my phone, which she had picked up and I was afraid she’d drop. She kept trying to hold it to her ear.

She smiled at me with her old lady dimples. “That’s sweet of you to say,” I lied. She doesn’t fool me. She’s not innocuous. She’s as mean as a snake and she doesn’t like ME at all. How did I end up doing this? I asked myself.

“No Aunt Yvonne,” I said as I gently moved the phone away from her ear. “This is a CAMERA call. Hold it out so they can SEE you.” She’s saying a final goodbye to Remy and letting a cousin know her arrival time. As the Facetime call ends, I pocket my phone with relief.

Lisa’s with us (I told her not to come) and she doesn’t speak French. So for her, this whole task is an awkward pantomime. Charles, our escort, drove us to Orly airport and he’s circling in wait to pick us up.

Yvonne walks at a glacial pace, and it took forever to clear security. Lisa and I have special tags allowing us to escort Yvonne to her gate. I offered to get her a wheelchair, but NOOOOO.
“We need to hurry –,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Why are you wearing that skintight nothing?” she barked loudly, irritatedly, “if I had YOUR figure, I’d hide those tiny *******” (“minuscules seins,” in French, loudly). Heads turned. As I flushed with irritation, she cackled like a witch.

It’s 8pm in Paris and 30.5°C (87°F). I’m wearing a sports bra and two tank tops. Sue me. I wasn’t planning on doing this at all. We were staggering slowly through the terminal when, like a gift from God, an Air France courtesy tram pulled up next to us.
“Get on,” I demanded, “or we’ll miss your flight.” She did - as slowly as humanly possible.

When we finally got seated at the gate, she sent me for bottled water, a sleep mask, a neck pillow, sugarless lemon drops and a Paris Match magazine. “Thank you, my dear,” she said upon my return, baring her teeth at me in what I suppose was meant to be a smile.

“You should come and visit me (in Libreville, Gabon, Africa),” she suggested, “I think there are things I could teach you.” This is like that gingerbread-house invitation we read about as children.

“I can’t,” I said, with feigned regret, "I'm in school,” (I wouldn’t go there if she lived with Timothée Chalamet).

I heard a familiar voice, and I looked up to see my Grandmèr arriving with her usual entourage of 7 or 8 lackeys, a couple of frazzled Air France employees and two gendarmes.
“Yvonne,” she said, pointing to the two Air France employees, “these people will see to you. Say goodbye to Anais.”

“Goodbye dear,” Yvonne said in a fake, fragile voice. I gave Yvonne a half-hearted Paris bises (two kisses on each side) and my Grandmèr shooed me away with a hand gesture and an impatient, “Go, GO.” I’m afraid uncle Remy’s in trouble.

Yvonne and her branch of the family are the slimiest people you could ever meet. They’re billion-heirs (not billionaires - billion-heirs) who (theoretically) stand to inherit handsomely when my Grandmèr dies (I am NOT in that grubby lineup). They’re liars, cheaters and scoundrels who’d stab you in the face for an olive to put in their martinis. They're legal reasons my Grandmèr has to put up with them from time to time - but every interaction is fraught with phoniness.

About fifteen minutes later, Lisa and I are in the car with Charles racing back to Paris for dinner with our roommates. As I texted them to expect us in 20 minutes, Lisa said, “I got bad vibes from that old lady - the way she LOOKED at you when you weren’t watching..”

“YOU,” I said with a chuckle, “are very perceptive!”